


war machines.

by hapsburgs



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Gallagher Girls Series - Ally Carter
Genre: I can't believe I actually wrote this, M/M, tonya better thank me into her grave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 14:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2814911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapsburgs/pseuds/hapsburgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story starts like this:</p><p>There is an isolated army base in the middle of Nebraska; an area that defines being off the map. And in that base there are barracks, and in barrack 4815 there are two beds. One belongs to a lanky farm boy with an accent thicker than molasses. The other belongs to an orphan, few words and silent determination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	war machines.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [teesandjays](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teesandjays/gifts).



The story starts like this:

There is an isolated army base in the middle of Nebraska; an area that defines being off the map. And in that base there are barracks, and in barrack 4815 there are two beds. One belongs to a lanky farm boy with an accent thicker than molasses. The other belongs to an orphan, few words and silent determination.

Their names are Matthew Morgan and Joe Solomon, and they become the best of friends.

Matt lays on his back, follows the cracks in the ceiling and tells Joe all about the life he's never had: about springy fouls and homemade pie and fields and fields of corn under a blue blue sky.

Matt, barely 5'8" and light as a feather, has more enthusiasm than any of them. Joe watches him quietly, watches how his face lights up when Private Cameron smiles at him, watches his eyes go wide at the picture show.

And Joe worries, because Matt wasn't made for this war. He can see it when Matt finishes their jogs nearly keeled over, when his time on the obstacle course is a half a minute behind the rest. He sees it in the way Matt can barely hold a gun, how Matt runs towards the theoretical machine guns and bombs, not away.

Everyone can see it, and Joe doesn't know why they keep up this charade anymore. Matt would be better back on the farm, he knows, but he can't bear to crush Matt's dream of doing something honorable for his shit stain of a country.

Joe, on the other hand, was _made_ for this war; like every second of his life was leading him to this. Orphaned at twelve, he has bounced around military academies for years - he knows guns, he knows combat, he knows _sacrifice_.

But that weighs on you, the lives of others and ominous fatality. Matt's never had the misfortune of that experience, but he's learning it all too well, because sometimes, in the dead of night, wind whistling outside, Joe wakes up screaming and he won't say why but Matt can see why in his eyes.

Matt's kind of a shrimp, to be honest, and therefore an object of constant ridicule. The other privates can barely picture him protecting the homeland. But Joe is there, Joe can intimidate others into submission, but Joe isn't quite sure how to help him when they're over in France.

But Matt - well, he's nothing if not perserverant; he can sense his upcoming embarrassment on the front, so he takes to following after Joe. He eats his 4000 calories in gruel a day, runs more laps than the other recruits combined, and wakes up at a sharp 4 o'clock to start the day off with pushups.

It's a start.

Then one day, Matt comes back from Dr. Saunders, and he's running laps around _Joe_ , his time on the training course is a minute under everyone else, and Joe thinks Matt has actually grown five inches.

Joe doesn't know what Saunders did to that country bumpkin, but all of a sudden Matt is being called their _weapon_ and - huh. An interesting turn of events.

And Joe is happy for Matt, really, but there is a sharp tug of jealousy within him. Because now, with this magical transformation, Matt has _everything_. He has the looks and the charisma and the patriotism and now the strength and - well, Joe has nothing. Joe never had much, but he was always a great soldier, but not anymore.

The gulf between he and Matt begins to widen. Matt is America's darling, constantly surrounded by the adoring fans that used to be his bullies - he doesn't have _time_ for Joe. And what's sad, is that Matt doesn't realize what he's doing, is too oblivious, for all his people skills, of Joe's deep seated hurt.

But Joe lets it slide, because this is not Matt's fault. Matt, all country manners and good Midwestern hospitality, _deserves_ this, more than anyone.

( _More than me_ , Joe must constantly reminds himself, when he watches Matt smile at adoring children waving American flags)

But Europe changes everything.

In Nazi-occupied France, amidst bombshells and gunfire, war transforms them, irrevocably,  in a way Joe still can't describe.

Matt finds his bearings in the chaos of war; commands other privates effortlessly and Joe's never seen a more natural leader. Matt has so much heart, so much faith that Joe is in constant awe. Matt is inspiring and always supportive, making sure no one is left behind, and _America personified_.

And war serves as Joe's natural element as well, but for all the wrong reasons, because Joe is _angry_ (angry at whom, he doesn't know). Joe picks up the tracking through the forest, the burn of gas in his lungs, and the brutality of death naturally.

A different kind of war machine, he is. He was made for this, after all.

The air is heavy in he and Matt's cabin. The freezing rain and distant sound of gunfire fill the dilapidated bunk, and the silence that was once filled so easily now suffocates him.

There’s a saying about how war changes people, about how seeing your friends die in front of you and blood mixing with the rain running down your face. And even though they’re still in France, Joe can already feel that change happening, the gears in his body reworking and his nerves realigning to something new, something deadly

A cold, wet November night. The sky is a dull, muted grey and the air is heavy with fog and unuttered fear, and it absorbs the sound of their boots on the slick leaves. Joe can hear his heart thudding in his ears and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

In an abandoned lab in the middle of the forest of Normandy, Joe finds his life purpose. The role of soldier, _Nazi killer_ , fits him like a glove. He can fight until he sees red, until his lungs are screaming, but then, on that particularly night, he meets Matt’s eyes.

And Matt’s eyes are soft. And scared.

Because Matt, for all his leadership and do-good-ingness, is still not made for this war. Matt is still that country kid who longs for his endless sky and eternal plains. And the way he looks at Joe, just then - he wonders what he would see if he looked in the mirror, if he would see a dangerous gleam in his eyes, if he would see remorse and compassion and all the things Matt used to think he was.

And it breaks Joe’s heart, Matt watching him like that, because he cannot deny the monster he’s become.

And because Matt looks at him like he’s a stranger, Joe goes deeper into the bloodiest fray, alone.

Their squadron only loses one man that day (take a wild guess who it was). The war ends six months later, but the victory parades and medal ceremonies mean nothing to Matthew Morgan. It unsettles him, the fact they never found a body.

So some nights, Matt will climb up to the roof of the barn, in a place untouched by this war, and look at all the stars spread out across the inky sky and imagines showing each and every one of them to Joe, who would look at them in the same awe that he would at him.

But his heart clenches tight in his chest because there are murmurs of strange events happening deep in the Russian countryside, and he’s reminded that this bloody cycle never ends, that Joe’s death did not change _a n y t h i n g_.

* * *

He wakes up to pain and a white, white room. It’s too sterile, too utilitarian, and too cold. Figures and feelings dance over his eyes, in and out like a daydream. People talk in heavy, sharp voices he can’t understand. His world is blinding, almost like he’s in a tunnel, rushing and rushing so fast he can’t breathe. They ask him over and over again in low tones in strange languages about _remembering_ but no, no he doesn’t know anything. He only remembers _this_ white, _this_ cold, and nothing else.

A woman eventually comes to see him, and the room empties when she steps into inside. Her hair is the color of blood streaked across a battlefield, her smile sharper than a thousand swords, and her eyes - well, he’s looked into the eyes of death itself and hers are even darker.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and for once, on that day, everything is sharp and clear and it feels like he can finally breathe.

She leans over him, soft and angelic, and whispers _Hydra_ , almost a prayer.

And to him, it sounds as sweet as scripture.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my sad attempt at a captain america au for tonya, and it's dreadfully short but it's the best i could do. 
> 
> i can't believe i wrote this stupid fucking thing never in my life did i think i would be writing matt/joe captain america this really shows how masochistic i am. 
> 
> merry christmas, tonya. i'll never write you anything again. you better go to your grave thanking me and praising me for this.


End file.
